


Drowning Lessons

by trademarkedtrash



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: AND GAY, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Depression, Drama, Eating Disorders, Grief, Highschool AU, M/M, Mental Illness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smoking, gerard is such an asshole in this rip, i can't write summaries for shit, it's hella gay, this is so sad, trust me it's an okay fic, what can i say im a slut for sad highschool AUS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trademarkedtrash/pseuds/trademarkedtrash
Summary: Anger manifests itself in Gerard Way, burning away at the softness that once lay there. Everything that has happened has been too much, but he'll never admit that. He can't help but take it out on everyone that walks past him, from his brother's ex-boyfriend, Pete Wentz, to a kid he picked up on that night. Frank Iero.But something else is manifesting in Gerard, something that feels stronger than the anger and the sadness and the hurt. Love. Or at least something close to it. The need to protect this kid in the same way he desperately tried to protect his brother.There's a connection between all of these people. Between the sadness and the anger and the hollowness.They just want Mikey Way back.[trigger warning for: self-harm, suicide, dark thoughts, underage. literally i cannot stress this enough there are multiple, graphic descriptions of self-harm and suicide attempts please read with extreme caution if you are sensitive to that kind of thing]





	1. all i know now

Gerard sits cross-legged on his scrubby bedroom floor. His sketchbook balances precariously on his knees and pencils lay scattered in a semi-circle in front of him. He sketches a new character: tall, skinny, long-ish brown hair, and entirely too much like Mikey. He sighs heavily, staring at Mikey-not-Mikey before scrubbing him out with a rubber.  
This had happened three times already.

It had been four weeks and five days since Mikey's funeral. It was utterly fucking awful. Their dad had packed his bags and left the day after. At least Gerard didn't have to move to the other side of the country to get away from him now. One good thing that wasn't even good anymore: home holds to many memories of Mikey.

His brother was a mess, Gerard knew that, but he never imagined that he would go like this. Mikey had attempted suicide before, overdosed on god-knows-what, and spent days away from the house. Each and every time Gerard felt the most intense emotion he had ever felt, fear. It was that pure fear for his brother and what he would do that closed Gerard's throat and made him feel sick. Sickness that spread from the bottom of stomach to his mind. Anxious energy made his hands jitter and his eyes unable to close when his brother left the house and didn't come home at night.

That night, five weeks and two days ago, was seared into his mind. He was with Frank Iero, a cute boy that he picked up when he went out. He was kissing his neck and running his hands up and down his back. He told Frank he loved him, but he didn't mean it. It took all his strength to not run away when Frank said he loved him too.  
After roving hands, gasps, whimpers, and Gerard clamping his hand over Frank's mouth to stifle his moans as the ecstasy rolled through him, they lay, out of breath and side by side, on Frank's mattress. Guilt consumed Gerard. Frank was fifteen. A minor. What he had done was illegal. It was rape. He lit a cigarette, staring straight ahead as he exhaled smoke, the dark cloud dancing away with each breath. He could feel Frank's gaze on him, longing him to say something.  
He didn't.  
Frank turned into his chest, not-so-subtly breathing in the smoke and the sweat and just Gerard. The moment wasn't sweet. It wasn't pure. It was awful. Gerard had taken advantage of this boy and this boy had mistaken that for love.  
Gerard made the mistake of wrapping his free arm around Frank's shoulders, the tips of his fingers grazing his bicep. Frank had moved into his touch, clinging to the front of Gerard's t-shirt like it was his life-line. When Frank's breathing steadied after a few minutes of lying like this, Gerard eased himself out from under Frank's hold. He wasn't asleep, they both knew that, but they pretended anyway. It would hurt less.

Just as Gerard reached Frank's bedroom door, Frank started crying. He choked back a sob, a sound so sad Gerard wanted to go deaf. Against his will, his feet started to move faster, and then he was running. Running, running, running away from Frank. The tears falling down his cheeks were quickly lost to the pavement.

It was two in the morning. Another fifty-four minutes, and his brother would be dead.

"Gerard?" His mum knocks on his bedroom door. "Can I come in?"

Gerard mumbles something, knowing full well she'll come in regardless.

The door creaks as his mum pushes it open, stepping inside. "What do you want for- oh, Gerard."

Her eldest and now only son was sobbing bitterly into his hands, crumpled up pieces of paper strewn around the room. She crouches down in front of him, carefully placing her hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong, honey?" She said, knowing exactly what was wrong.

"M-Mikey." Gerard chokes out between sobs. "I miss him s-s-so much."

"I know, sweetie. I know." She says, her mind detaching itself from the scene that unfolds before her. It's a coping technique. Focus your mind, and there's no pain. You're in Italy, laughing as your mother sings a funny song at dinner. You're in a cottage in Wales, playing scrabble with your family. You're winning, and everyone's okay with that. It's raining outside but there's a warm fire and hot chocolate with marshmallows indoors.   
You're not here. You're not in pain. You're not regretting the last four years, because if you'd been nicer to your son, he wouldn't have drowned himself.


	2. it was always you

(I love you. I love you.  
why did you let him die?   
I love you. I love you.  
It was your fucking fault.  
All your fault)

Frank shakes his head, hard, trying to expel the thoughts that buzz around in his head. Guilty for something he hadn't done. Guilty for something he could've stopped. There are bugs under his skin, making his bones crawl and his mind shake.

(You could've stopped him, Frankie.  
But you let him die, didn't you? You killed my brother.  
I love you)

He's going crazy. He hears Gerard's voice echoing around in his head. It was his fault. It was all his fault. Tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes. His hands shook as his throat closes over, gasping for breath. His thoughts start to swirl faster and faster in his head, his whole body trembling. Tears start to streak down his cheeks.

[it's not real it's not real breathe in c'mon frank not again]

(I love you)

The thought of those words that left Gerard's lips was enough. The breath in his lungs didn't seem to exist as he desperately tries to calm down. His entire body shakes as he leans against the bathroom wall. His dad hadn't wanted him to go into school today, but he had. All because of Gerard. He needs to see Gerard. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Everything is a fight. Raw panic sets into his mind and he can't breathe.

[someone someone help me help me helpmehelpme please}

He had saved Mikey once. He had yelled for help whilst Mikey lay on the same bathroom floor, twitching, eyelids flickering fast, pills scattered from his hands. He had saved him once, but he couldn't do it again. It was all his fault that Mikey Way had died. Had killed himself. All his fault. He couldn't be there. He sinks to the ground, his legs giving up on him. 

(Pathetic. Maybe if you were braver, prettier, Gerard would really love you)

Frank buries his head in his hands, resting his forehead on his knees, desperately trying to think of ways to calm down.

The bell rings, signalling the start of the next lesson. Frank can't think, can't focus on one thought for long enough. His mind is a mess of I love you all your fault Mikey Mikey Way dead. He hears the door to the bathroom open and stiffens, but he can't stop shaking, his breathing still ragged, tears coming thick and fast. He hears quick footsteps coming towards him. He tenses, expecting a harsh kick and harsher words.

Instead, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and someone crouching down in front of him. He shakes harder, sobbing.

"Hey, hey... It's okay, look at me." Their voice is gentle, full of quiet authority. Frank presses his back into the wall, wanting more than anything to disappear. "It's gonna be okay. Don't cry." He feels a gentle pressure on his chin, lifting his head up to meet the stranger's eyes. "I'm Patrick. What's your name?"

"F-Frank-k." He decides to save himself the embarrassment of stammering out his last name.

"Okay, Frank. I want you to match your breathing with mine." Not trusting himself to speak again, Frank nods, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. Patrick breathes in steadily, and he copies him the best he can. "You're doing really well." Patrick comments, and Frank gives him a shaky half-smile. After a couple of minutes, Frank's breathing steadies and he stops crying. For the first time, he takes in Patrick's appearance.

He's a little chubby, with brown-ginger (someone more pretentious than Frank would've called it auburn) hair and long sideburns. He had a red and white baseball cap crammed over his thick hair, and his school uniform is ill-fitting.

"How did you do that?" Frank asks, meaning to thank him.

"My best friend has anxiety attacks." He states, matter-of-fact.

"Oh... Sorry." He doesn't know what else to say.

"It's fine." Patrick says, waving it off. He holds out a hand to Frank and pulls him to his feet. "Let's get to lessons. We're gonna get murdered."

Frank can feel tears spring to his eyes at his words. He quickly pushes his way out of the door as Patrick glanced at him.

"Holy smokes... you knew Mikey, didn't you?" He says, jogging a little to keep up with Frank.

Frank nods, realising that this is better than what he's actually crying about, biting his lip and begging himself not to start crying again.

"... I'm so sorry." Patrick tentatively places his arm around Frank's shoulders.

"Why should you be?" Frank says, a little bitterly. "It wasn't your fault."

Patrick senses how Frank felt. "It wasn't yours either. Suicide is no-one's fault."

"It was my fault!" Frank suddenly screams at him, pulling away from his touch. He is completely unaware of the students that could hear them in the classrooms as they stand in the corridor. "It was all my fucking fault! It's my fault that Mikey Way is... is-"

"Frank Iero. Patrick Stump." The calm voice of Mr. Ross, an English teacher, floats down the corridor as he approaches the two boys. "Would you mind telling me what's going on?" He studies each of them with sharp eyes.

"Sorry, sir." Patrick says, a little hurt from Frank's outburst. "We were just... Um..."

"Having a massive row in the m-middle of the corridor." Frank offeres, his shaking voice betraying his fake confidence.

"I can see that." Mr. Ross says dryly, smirking a little at Frank's comment. "Go to your lessons, and say you were running an errand for me."

Patrick nods, walking away quickly. Frank quickly follows suit.

"Oh, and Frank...?" Frank stops in his tracks, silently cursing the teacher to hell. "Are you okay?"

Frank could've laughed.   
He is torn apart. Mikey Way had died. He had never wanted to go to sleep and not wake up more than now. Gerard had been avoiding him. His guitars strings had broken and he couldn't get hold of new ones. Someone had scrawled 'fag' in sharpie over his locker. He wanted to smoke, just to remember Gerard. Patrick had seen him at his lowest moment and that made him want to never show his face at school never again.  
All these little things are building up inside him, threatening to claw every last piece of him apart.

"I'm fine."


	3. graveyard

"Yellow flowers make me happy, Mikes. So I figured you'd like them." Pete gently places a bunch of daffodils at the bottom of Mikey Way's grave. It's nothing special, just another place to bury the dead. The gravestone is already showing signs of wear; reading 'Michael James Way, beloved brother and son. Taken before his time.' and then his birth and death dates. Pete sits down, cross-legged, next the somewhat-faded gravestone. "You weren't taken, Mikey, you took yourself. And I'm sorry I did nothing about it." He pauses for a beat, waiting for tears and getting nothing. "At Jen's party... The night you, well, you know... I kissed Meagan. I'm so sorry. I lost sight of you and then I... Lost... Fuck. I don't know what to say, or how to say it. But, uh, that's the past. And I want to forget about it. But I can't. I-I... I love you, Mikey. From the moment I saw you." Pete laughs, short, sharp, and entirely humourless. "I know you don't believe in love at first sight or whatever, but, honestly, nothing has ever been realer. Is that even a word? God, Mikey... I think I'm going crazy. I keep... seeing you. I can hear your voice sometimes. Come back, god damn you." Tears start to streak down his cheeks. He makes no effort to wipe them away. "Since you've been gone-" he laughs, singing the words shakily. "Fuckin' Kelly Clarkson, man. Did she sing that? I dunno." He stops. suddenly aware that someone was staring at him. He hears footsteps, indicating that whoever it was had moved on. "Well, Mikes, it's like there's... just... nothing. Nothing up here." He taps his temple twice with his index finger. "Nothing here," he taps the spot on his chest over his heart. "I miss you so fucking much every day. I love you. I just wish... I wish... Fuck it." His voice suddenly harsh. "Wishing won't bring you back from the dead. Fuck you. Fuck you and all you've done it me? H-How could you? If you loved me, how could you hurt me like this? Fuck you." He stands up, brushing away the dirt on his jeans, and walked away from the grave. 

Nothing above, nothing below.

//

He sits in the bath, letting the hot water scald his skin. He stares blankly ahead, not seeing anything. His heart feels so heavy, like it's made of lead. He lets his mind wander, feeling tears build up behind his eyes as it drifts to Mikey. Always Mikey. He looks vacantly at the water, wondering what his boyfriend would've felt when the icy water of the lake gripped his throat and blinded his eyes and burned his lungs. He closes his eyes, hearing the half-strangled screams of Mikey Way as he drowned.

Nothing above, nothing below.

Just Mikey.

Mikey, the centre of Pete's universe. Mikey, the one Pete would've died for. Mikey, the love of Pete's life.

Mikey, dead.

The realisation often comes back and hits Pete, hard. That he can't climb into Mikey's window at three in the morning, slip between his covers and hold him. That he would never feel Mikey's hands on his. That he would never see Mikey smile again. Simple things. And then the greater things, like the nervousness of waiting in a hospital room for news of Mikey waking up, and the relief so strong it moved Pete to tears when he did. Holding him and feeling complete. Crying into his shoulder when everything went wrong and laughing into his chest when everything went right. The feeling of belonging, truly belonging, that time when Pete lay next to Mikey on the hospital bed.

Gone.

Mikey would never save Pete again. There was no-one stopping Pete taking that many pills again. Taking sleeping tablets like sweets under a street light in the dead of night. Pete could've saved Mikey. He could've, he knew it, but he fucking didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Pete chapters will generally be a little shorter! feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment!!


	4. forget it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of past abuse

Gerard runs a hand through his increasingly greasy black hair, sighing as the rain starts to fall more and more heavily. He has given up on school today. Two lessons in and he had started crying in both.

Gerard wasn't usually one to cry, and he wasn't about to relish the looks of pity that he got from almost everyone. He wasn't Gerard anymore, he was Gerard. You Know, Gerard Way, The One Who's Brother Killed Himself. He had already nearly been suspended, but of course the headmaster had been more lenient because of his 'family situation'. Gerard had wanted to bash his stupid head in. Why couldn't he just say it? Why couldn't he just say, "Look, what you're doing is totally not allowed. But because your brother's dead and your dad left you, I'll be nice." Mr Weekes was never really one for being blunt.  
Dickhead.

Gerard walks straight out of the school gates. He would relish the feeling of freedom, except he didn't really feel anything these days. He doesn't bother taking his blazer off, the school "logo" or whatever it was, clearly emblazoned on his chest doesn't worry him; he isn't going anywhere special. Not to anyone else, anyway. He does, however, rip off the red tie that hangs around his neck and drops it onto the concrete pavement. Just a casual little 'fuck you' to everyone that stares at him through the school windows. He half-expects/wants a teacher to run out after him, to cause a massive scene. But, of course, they didn't get paid enough to chase some teenage boy in the rain.

The pavement fades away now, giving way to softer ground. Giving way to the lake where Mikey drowned. He does this sometimes, usually at night. He sits down, cross-legged, just at the edge of the water and places his right hand into the icy water. He winces as the lake bites into his hand: but the numbness quickly took over, so it was fine. The sky is overcast, dark clouds trudging along. The rain falls in sheets now, so heavy he can barely see three feet in front of him.

"Hey, Mikey." Gerard says, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the beating rain. "I miss you. But you know that by now, don't you? I've been, I dunno, slipping recently. I keep seeing you, or your ghost or whatever. I- er, I looked it up and it's supposed to be common for someone who's recently lost someone close to them. And, Jesus, I've been so fucking... sad without you. I hate feeling like this. If I had any sense, I'd do what you did, but I don't think that mum would appreciate picking bits of my skull off the ceiling." Gerard gives a shaky laugh, running his left hand through his now-soaking hair. "And we honestly don't need to lose anyone else. You. Dad. Although we're glad he left, just disappointed he took all his money with him." He pauses, moving his hand in a slow figure of eight under the water. "Mum's got a new job, her first one in a while. She's a secretary in this business office in town." Gerard can't feel his arms anymore.  
"God, Mikes. I think I'm going fucking psycho. I see you, I talk to you, and you're fucking dead. Mum wants me to see a therapist, and school are trying to force me into seeing that fucking stupid counsellor. I told Mr Weekes to go fuck himself, and he just shook his head at me. I keep getting the fucking pity vote... Fuck it. Worse things have happened. Like you." He lets his words hang in the air. Pulling his hand out of the water, he lies flat on his back, closing his eyes against the violent rain.  
And miraculously, fantastically, unluckily, he falls asleep.

He wakes up to his phone frantically vibrating in his pocket. The rain has stopped now, the sky dark, spilled ink against the muted colours of the landscape underneath it. He checks his phone; 63 missed calls from Mum. It's gone eleven.  
Royally fucked doesn't even begin to cover it.

His phone rings again. Trying to summon up courage (and failing miserably) he answers.

"Hello?" He says tentatively into his phone.

"Gerard Arthur Way!" His mum's voice pierces the sudden silence of the night. He jerks the phone away from his ear instantly.

"Yes, mum?" He asks in what he hopes is an innocent voice.

"Where the hell are you?! I've been worried sick! Calls from school, said you weren't there, and then you don't come home..." Gerard begins to steadily tune her out as he starts to walk home. There was a time when he would've cared, when he would've ran home and said sorry until he was blue in the face, but now... what was the point?

"Yeah, okay." He says, cutting his mum off mid-sentence, and hangs up. There was a time when he never would've done that, for fear of his own life. There was a time when he would've been making excuses up the whole way back home. 

A small part of him is tempted to say he had been at Frank's, fucking him until the kid passed out.  
But Gerard isn't completely mad. Not yet, anyway.

The second he arrives at the doorstep of the house, the door flings open to reveal his mum, her fury barely contained.

"Get in." She says, her voice a deadly calm, jerking her head back towards the living room. He steps into the house, keeping a perfect neutral mask over his features. "Sit down." She points at a chair close to the door. He does. He sits on his hands to stop them shaking so badly. His mind flashes back to all the times his dad had hit him, all the times he had had to be a human shield over Mikey. Those times always started out like this.  
A talk. A wrong word. A slap.  
Then the belt. Then Gerard would try to block his dad's path to his baby brother with his body, which never ended well for him. Then screaming. Then a mother who simply watched.

Then nothing.


	5. gerard way is typing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: graphic depictions of self-harm

Frank has had enough. He's sick of sitting on the same room for hours, constantly on the verge of tears. He's sick of Gerard ignoring him. He's sick to death of everything.

He has gotten better since Mikey's funeral... And worse.

Better because he doesn't instantly start crying every time someone mentions death or Mikey and Mikey's name hurts so badly because of Gerard fucking Way, and worse because he's starting to cut himself (again).

It's not like he wanted to or anything, god no. He's not sick or depressed or whatever. Just a bit... down. It's not his fault; he has to cope somehow, doesn't he? His coping mechanism is to show that he's in control, and there's not anything wrong with it. He's a bit of mess, yes, but he's not doing anything dangerous. He's not going too deep-  
( _yet_ )  
And he's not cutting upwards-  
( _yet_ )  
So he's fine, honestly.

His dad had nearly caught him, a couple of times. When Frank had been crying and shaking so hard he could barely hold onto the razor. Those were bad times; but they were the worst. It doesn't get worse.

( _Apart from that time when he was home alone and kept cutting and cutting and cutting and he couldn't stop-_ )

Besides, he doesn't have a reason to be sad. No-one in his family has died. His parents are still together. He's just... Pining after Gerard. That's it.

( _The bath water turned scarlet and his wrists were a mess of straight, weeping lines. The water felt like acid against the cuts on his stomach and thighs. Some of them ripped open, sending clouds of blood floating to the surface. He thought about ending it all, about pulling the razor up the length of his forearm, from his wrists to the crook of his elbow_ )

He's also purged a couple of times; but it was nothing. He was feeling sick. It would've happened anyway. 

(so fat and ugly no-one will ever love you why can't you be pretty? if you didn't eat you would be pretty. this is why no-one wants you. because you're so fat and disgusting-)

All of this is like a hurricane, ripping through his head and tearing down any shelter he might've built for himself, exposing weaknesses and violently stirring up thoughts that lay dormant for years and-  
Then his phone screen lights up.  
Then...

_Gerard Way <3 is typing..._

The eye of the hurricane. Sudden calm. Everything might be okay for a little while, but the walls always come closer and closer.

He unlocks his phone, hands shaking a little. He doesn't know exactly how Gerard had gotten hold of his Kik username, but he was happy (was that the right word?) that he had.

_Hey Frank_

Did he respond instantly? Did he wait? 

"Fuck it." He mutters, quickly typing out a 'hey' in response.

_I miss you already :(_

Four simple words make him crack into the first smile to appear on his face for days. His thumbs dance over his phone screen, not typing anything. How is he supposed to respond? He misses the way Gerard feels next to him; the weight, the warmth. He felt so safe when Gerard was beside him.

_Gerard Way <3 is typing..._  
_I want to see you again_

"When? How?" Frank murmurs to himself

_Come to the lake_  
_I have to see you now_

Frank bites back a smile as he reads the message. A smile that instantly fades when the next text lights his phone up again.

_We need to talk._

Now? Frank types quickly. There's no way he can slip out of the house now. It's almost midnight and his parents are downstairs.

_Frankie, please_  
_For me_

That does it. Gerard knows that even now Frank would do anything for him.

_I'm coming._ Frank texts before pocketing his phone in his jeans (that he forgot to take off). He grabs a pair of shoes that lie strewn across his bedroom floor. His hands shake as he ties up the laces of his tatty black converse: he can't believe what he's about to do. The night has always held such fear for Frank. His parents keep his phone (when they could), so he had to be alone with this thoughts, and his thoughts were so violent. Always blades, always death, always hands reaching out from under his bed. That was part of the reason why he got rid of his bed frame. Nothing can hide under his mattress.

He slips, silently as a ghost, down the stairs. Each stair seems to scream louder than thousands of thunderstorms, he closes his eyes and cringes at each noise, terrified that he'll wake his parents up. As he gets closer to the bottom of the stairs, he can hear the TV quietly playing some sort of old sitcom. His dad must be awake. He tentatively steps onto the floor from the bottom step, wincing as it creeks loud enough to wake the d-

Don't. A voice echoes around his head. Don't.

He avoids the living room, hyperaware of every movement his dad is making. He treads carefully on silent tiptoes, moving through the dark dining room, pressing himself against the wall as he skirts around the table. He hears a movement from behind him and freezes, his hazel eyes darting around for a place to hide. There's no movement anywhere else in the house. Frank slowly counts to ten, before letting out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He sneaks into the dimly lit kitchen, the back door all too close now. He tests the door handle. It's locked.

Of course it is.

The keys lie in the fruit bowl (with no fruit in), supposedly for safe keeping. Frank pads across the tiles of the kitchen floor, his heart racing as the keys clink against the ceramic. His eyes dart back towards the living room doorframe, every nerve in his body seems to fray as his shoulders shake. No movement.

He bunches the keys under his shirt to stifle any noise they might make. The door seems to be miles away; the house eerily quiet apart from the muted canned laughter coming from the TV. Every step seems to cause an earthquake, but there is still no movement from the house.

After what seems like years, Frank finally reaches the door. Fumbling in the dark, he tries one, two, three keys before finally finding the right one. The lock makes a loud clicking sound as it twists around, making him anxiously gnaw on his lip. He pulls on the handle, causing the door to swing open. It creaks loudly, the sound piercing the nearly-silent house. Frank wastes no time in slipping through the gap in the door and out into the sudden darkness.

//

The night is oddly peaceful. The moon shines down overhead, casting a silvery glow on the dirt path that Frank finds himself walking down. The trees no longer have gnarled faces, no twisted fingers reaching out to grab at his clothes and pull him away.

( _'Daddy!' Frank screams, sat bolt upright in his bed. His little hands grip the blankets in terror. 'Daddy, there's a monster!' His father rushes in, his mother in tow. His dad instantly lifts him up into his arms, murmuring that's it's all going to be okay, that it was just a bad dream..._ )  
( _But Frank knows. Six-year-old Frank knows what he's seen. And he can never forget it_ )

He's not exactly sure where to go, but his feet lead him easily enough down dirt paths through the sudden thicket of trees. They don't seem as cruel as they used to. There's an indistinct hum of noise all around him. Insects and cars and the ever-present police sirens. 

( _Frank is ten, confused and lost in the middle of a big city. He has nightmares almost every night, but he doesn't wake up screaming anymore_ )  
( _A gang of rough-looking teenagers bear down on him, they grab hold of him, pushing him and laughing at him_ )  
( _Frank is t-e-r-r-i-f-i-e-d, but he sees his dad and screams for him. His father runs to him, sending the teenagers running. He's safe in his dad's arms again, but he sees monsters over his shoulder..._ )

He can feel the delicate pull of the lake now. Gerard's close. A small smile plays across his lips. The smell of cigarette smoke floats through the air, gripping to his clothes and hanging onto to his hair. He grins fully now, wincing as he splits the cut on his lip open again; but he doesn't really care. Maybe Gerard'll think he's tough.

"Frankie?" His voice floats through the still night, he doesn't sound as scared as he ought to. "Is that you?"

"Depends who's calling." Frank says back, mentally face-palming for being weird.

"Who are you, James Bond?" The older boy says as Frank walks into his line of sight. He smiles awkwardly. "Sit, Frankie." He gestures to a spot on the dirt opposite him. Frank obeys and sits down on the slightly damp ground, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Why did you bring me out here?" Frank suddenly blurts out, breaking the sudden but gentle silence that they both lapsed into.

Gerard smiled, looking at Frank on a way that made the younger boy's heart stutter. "I'm just trying to find the words." He says simply. 

Another pause.

"Frankie... What happened that night... I'm sorry for it." Gerard says, looking anywhere but Frank. Gerard's words hit him like they're ten-tonne trucks. It feels like Gerard has just punched a huge hole through his middle, taking his organs and bones and skin.  
Anything for him.  
"You see... I-" he laughed breathily. "Don't get me wrong, you were great," Frank blushes bright red, happy for the dim light. "But it shouldn't have happened."

"You mean... We should've never happened?" Frank whispers, wanting to crawl into the lake and never come back out again.

"No, Frankie..." Gerard sighs, running a hand through his shoulder-length, black hair. "I just mean... Fuck it. Fuck it all." Gerard stands up. Frank is suddenly very, very scared. "Stand up. Come with me."

"... Gerard?" Frank moves back a little, edging away from the boy in front of him.

"I thought I told you to stand up." Gerard holds a hand out, his voice cold steel. Frank takes his hand and Gerard yanks him to his feet, placing a hand on his hip when he staggers a little. "There now, Frankie. That wasn't so hard, was it?" He says condescendingly, smiling as Frank flushes red again. "There's blood on your lip." Gerard brushes his fingers over Frank's lips, that grin lighting his face up again when they part slightly at his touch. "Always willing, aren't you?" He murmurs, pulling Frank closer and closer to him.  
Frank realises that now would be the perfect time to lean in, to tilt his head slightly to left, and to kiss Gerard's chapped lips. He moves closer still to the older boy. Gerard's fingers freeze from tracing Frank's lips, and he pushes Frank away, but he grabs his wrist when he starts to fall backwards.

"Frank. Listen to me." He tightens his grip around the younger boy's wrist. "You know Pete Wentz?" Frank nods, nerves more frayed than ever. "Don't talk to him. Don't look at him. Don't even think about him, okay?"

"Why?" He asks, squirming a little from Gerard's vice-like grip around his wrist.

"Don't question me in the future, alright?" Frank nods again. "Good. Look, Pete Wentz had this 'thing' with Mikey-"

"So?"

"Don't interrupt me." Gerard twists Frank's wrist, smiling when he winces.

"Sorry."

"You should be." He pauses, smiling suddenly and letting go of Frank's wrist and pulling him into to his body, hugging him close. "You see, Frankie, Pete Wentz is the reason my brother killed himself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you know I've had this (well like the first 7 chapters of this) written up since September/early October I'm really excited to be posting it  
> tell me what you think! tell me what could've been better! tell me what you liked!  
> (if you want <3)


	6. ghost

There he is. Standing in the hall, by his locker. His long, lanky form leans against the corrugated metal. His trademark grey beanie slips down his forehead, knocking his glasses a little. He smiles bashfully at Pete, looking into his eyes like they were the only two in the corridor.  
"Pete?" Patrick stops his (totally ignored) monologue about starting some kind of band when he no longer feels his best friend's presence next to him. "What's u-"  
Pete shushes him, eyes still locked on the figure a few metres in front of him. Someone shoves him in the back. He stumbles, but doesn't keep walking.  
"Mikey." He says, tasting the name on his lips. "Mikey." He says again, louder.  
"Um... Pete?" Patrick tugs on the other's sleeve.  
This is impossible. Mikey was... not alive. But there he is. Mikey Way. 

_MikeyMikeyMikeyMikeyMikey-_

"Mikey!" He yells out, not caring when people stare at him.  
"Oh no..." Patrick mutters, reaching out to grab hold of his friend and drag him away.  
"Mikey!" Pete shouts again, running towards his boyfriend. Because there he is; stupid beanie and tatty school uniform and black glasses. Mikey is alive.  
But Mikey just smiles sadly at Pete, turns his back, and begins to walk away.  
"Mikey? Mikey! Come back!"  
"Pete..." Patrick locks his fingers around Pete's wrist, pulling him backwards.  
"Wasn't he the one who-"  
"Didn't his boyfriend-"  
"Is he talking about Mikey Way?"  
"I thought he was dead?"

Patrick winces at every whispered comment about his best friend: but Pete doesn't seem to hear. He glances around the hall frantically, his eyes landing on... Oh god. His eyes landing on Gerard Way, walking towards them. Even from this distance, Patrick can see the pure fury in the older boy's eyes.  
Before he can do anything, Gerard has Pete slammed up against the lockers that line the hallway, his face only inches away from Pete's.  
"What gives you the fucking right to talk about my brother?! Huh, Wentz?! What fucking gives you the fucking right?!" Gerard yells right in Pete's face, hitting his body back into the lockers with every word.  
Sudden anger about losing Mikey for the second time makes Pete far braver than he ever thought he'd be. "He was my boyfriend, you cunt." He snarls back.  
Gerard suddenly goes very still. This scares Pete more than when he was being slammed into the metal behind him. "He what." Gerard says, his voice purest venom.

By now a huge crowd has gathered around them, walls of bodies caging them in from all sides. They want them to fight, the walls want to see blood and fists fly.  
"You heard me." Pete spits. "He. Was. My. Boyfriend."  
Pete can almost hear something snap in Gerard's mind half a second before the first punch slams into his stomach. And then another. And another. And then Pete falls down. And then there's a thermonuclear blast of pain to his head as Gerard kicks him. And then...

"Stop!" Patrick shouts as the shock wears off him, grabbing at Gerard's hands.  
"Fuck off, fatty." Gerard snarls, hitting out at Patrick too and catching him across the face. The crowd around them is laughing, calling encouragement for Gerard, chanting the same word over and over again.  
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"  
"I'll fucking kill you, Wentz! It's your fault! It's your fucking fault my brother's dead!" Each word is punctuated with another kick to the ribs. Someone starts to barge through the crowd, yelling at the walls to move.  
Pete's vision starts to blur more and more, his eyes closing. The sudden stabs of pain stop altogether as Gerard starts to shout again, raising his voice to scream that he'll kill Pete if it's the last thing he does. The adrenaline that ungraciously dumped itself into Pete's veins is wearing off and he can feel the slow throb of pain set in to his ribs. Nausea comes and goes in agonising waves, the barest movements sending sickness coursing through his blood. His eyes lie half-closed, the world turns half-black, half-blurry. He can vaguely feel someone shaking his shoulder and he can not so much hear as feel their voice press against the pain and confusion that wraps around him like a blanket. Everything seems to fade: the sounds become heavier and more distorted, the half of the world that he can see slipping more and more out of focus, the feelings stop being and simply slip further and further away.

And then the whole world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you thought about this chapter (please I need validation)  
> love <3


	7. now my feet don't touch the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one gets rlly cute I'm proud of it

Gerard is suspended for fighting. For seven whole days. He wonders whether he is going to be able to take such a massive shock to the system--not.  
The days that pass don't seem to exist, time speeding up and stopping altogether when it feels like it. He spends most of the week holed up in his room, earphones in with the music playing so loud the world seems hollow when he stops the music. He tries to sketch, but they all look too much like Mikey. Only one doesn't, but he looks almost identical to Frank.

Ah, Frank.

Gerard doesn't understand what Frank sees in him: but whatever it is, it must be serious. Gerard sees Frank in school, walking alone, always looking at him. The kid seems to have some sort of Gerard radar. Of course, he knows that Frank would do anything for him; it's one of those highschool crushes for god's sake. Gerard is a little guilty of twisting the younger boy to do exactly what he wants him to do: the power trip never gets old. Gerard has lost so many people dear to him; if he's in control, then maybe--just maybe--he won't lose Frank. It helps that Frank is very pretty, too. So pretty and so willing to do whatever Gerard wants...

Gerard grabs his phone from the end of his bed, unlocking it quickly and opening his Tumblr (Frank seems like the kind to run an edgy blog) and does some stalking of the rest of his social media, pausing only to reblog some memes and pictures of Brian Molko onto his personal blog and band trash blog respectively. He soon finds Frank's account; it is mainly pictures of self-harm and edgy lyric edits, scrolling down, he finds Frank's 'one thousand follower face reveal!" and smirked a little. Frank looks beautiful in it: his hair ginger and spiked up into a short Mohawk, his perfect lips slightly parted (which, it has to be said, really does something for Gerard). Simple black circle earrings add to his image--which is, of course, edgy little teenage shit. He's wearing a Misfits shirt, something that makes Gerard smile for about half a second. At least they have something to talk about the next time he bothers to text Frank.  
Tapping the image twice to send it full-screen, he puts pencil to paper and starts to draw.

//

Gerard's seven entire days of being suspended from school is over. He's told by that bitch secretary that Mr Weekes has 'requested to see him', which essentially means he's either about to get kicked out, or he's about to get 'the talk'. Being expelled would be preferable.  
He quietly knocks on the door, waiting for about half a second for any sort of response before turning around. He's just starting to walk away when he sees Mr Weekes striding towards him.  
"Shit." He hisses to himself, wildly thinking of places to hide and if he can master the somewhat improbable power of invisibility within the next three seconds.  
"Ah, Gerard," the headteacher says, towering a good foot above him. It's part intimidating, part condescending. "If you'd care to step into my office."  
_What a fucking stupid statement_ , Gerard thinks, _It's not like I've got a fucking choice._ But he does anyway, head bowed meekly as he walks into the office.  
It's quite small, the walls painted a faint cream colour. Gerard wonders if the walls used to be white and Weekes just smokes a lot; he wouldn't blame him. The nicotine and the poison and trying to get the smoke's grip on your clothes and hair off was usually all distraction he needed. There's a small, most likely fake potted aloe vera plant perching on the edge of a, again, cream desk that sits right in the middle of the tiny office.  
_What is it with this school and_ cream _?_ Gerard thinks, only slightly disgusted at the headteacher's poor taste in colour choice.

He walks in after Gerard and sits at his desk. He shuffles some papers around, pretending not to care about the reports and final warnings and that his phone buzzes with an angry text from his boyfriend. He rests his elbows against the hard surface of the desk and looks up at Gerard, standing awkwardly in front of the cream desk. He finally breaks the silence, "What are we going to do with you, Gerard?" He sighs heavily, leaning forward to rest his chin on his interlocked fingers. "What are we going to do?"  
Gerard doesn't grace him with a response, but screams insults at him in his head, each more creative and... descriptive than the last.  
"You don't pay attention in lessons, I've had numerous complaints about your attitude, you cut school, and now you go around beating up the younger years! Honestly, Gerard, I've been very lenient with you because of your," he clears his throat, "family situation."

_What, because my brother's dead and my dad walked out on me and my mum's drinking more and more and-_

"I've assigned a boy in your class, Ray Toro, to look after you for a little while."

As if Gerard's day couldn't get any better.  
Ray Toro is one of those kids who actually tries hard, considers being ten minutes early to a lesson 'late', and doesn't have that many friends but he's the teacher's pet. He's that kid.

"I don't want to be _looked after_." Gerard blurts, his head a sickening mixture of blind anger and all-too-aware embarrassment.  
"You may not _want_ to be, Gerard, but you _need_ to be." He pulls back his left blazer sleeve a little and checks his watch. "He'll be waiting in reception for you." He clears his throat pointedly, starting to write something down in a neat, leather bound diary.  
Gerard can't reach the door quick enough. He knows that Ray would be easy enough to shake off, it's simply a matter of how soon. He presses down on the door handle and pushes the door away from him, planning about how best to tell Ray Toro to fuck off.  
"Oh, and Gerard?" He freezes, muttering strings of curses under his breath as he prepares for the headmaster's next sermon. "You're on final warning. If I hear anything, and I mean anything, bad about you from anyone: then you're out. Okay?"  
"Thanks so much." Gerard says sarcastically, slipping through the gap and slamming the door behind him.

Ray Toro in all his annoying, overly-helpful glory jumps up out of one of the shitty plastic chairs the second he sees Gerard come storming through the double doors.  
"Hey Gerard!" He says, far too excited for a Monday morning.  
"First of all, pull this energetic shit again and I will slap you. Second of all, in the least nice way possible, fuck off." Gerard says condescendingly, with his trademark 'bite me' smirk plastered across his face.  
Ray looks utterly crushed, and Gerard nearly feels bad until his assigned best friend smiles again. And then he just wants to slap him again.  
"Say what you want, Gerard Way, but I've been told to look after you-"  
"I DON'T FUCKING NEED TO BE LOOKED AFTER!" Gerard suddenly screams at him. "I DIDN'T FUCKING ASK YOU TO FOLLOW ME AROUND ALL DAY, DID I?" Ray looks frightened, which makes Gerard feel half-bad, half-powerful. He's about to yell again, but Ray says quietly:  
"Look. I know you hate me right now, but I'm not giving up on you. Best case scenario, we become friends, maybe even best friends. And to be honest, I think we both need a friend right now."  
"What's the worse case?" Gerard can't help but realise how right Ray is. He's never needed a friend more.  
"Worst case, you do some stupid shit and get expelled: but I'll still annoy you with friendship forever."  
Gerard cracks a smile, and when he meets Ray's eyes, they both laugh for the longest time. The sound falling from his mouth and the feeling in his chest are totally alien. His heart feels like it's about to burst, hairline-cracks threatening to explode the contents of his chest across the polished floor.  
It feels good. 

//

It's twenty past seven in the evening, three weeks later. Gerard and Ray, Ray and Gerard--  
(It feels so good to be able to say someone's name after his own)  
Are sat on a hill in the outskirts of town, watching the sun as it slips further down the sky. Ghostly pale hands in black fingerless gloves with bones on the fingers wrap their way around the neck of a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka that's nestled between their bodies. The sky is a pale blue, dusty pink clouds are scattered across it. The sinking sun gently lights up the edge of the world in a pale yellow that fades into a deeper orange, sending delicate streaks of white light to backlight the clouds. The precious breath that escapes the pale pink lips of the two boys looks like smoke as it twists and intertwines and dances upwards into the sky. Gerard feels a flurry of thanks and electricity rush from one warm body to another as he presses himself against to Ray's body. Ray's arm instinctively pulls him closer until his face presses against his shoulder. Gerard wraps his arms around the boy next to him and he feels so safe. For the first time in almost four years, Gerard feels safe. He's happy. He's happy in the arms of Ray. He feels long, graceful fingers knot into his black hair and he's happy. Ray presses an unexpected kiss to his forehead and he freezes for a second, and then smiles and he's so deliriously happy. It's strange and different but right. He feels tears well up behind his eyes and doesn't try to blink them away as he might have once. His breathing gets a little shaky and maybe it's the most-likely-unhealthy amount of alcohol he's consumed but he's properly crying now and he doesn't know why.  
Maybe it's just Ray. Maybe it's just feeling safe. Maybe it's the softness that surrounds them both at this very moment.  
Ray is the mint and tasteless vodka on Gerard's breath. He is the chapped lips that graze his knuckles. He is the honey and silk and he is the better days. He's the best thing to happen to Gerard.  
He is a friend.  
Gerard is all wrong. He is broken glass and mud trodden through white carpets. He is spilt lips and bloody noses. He is the purple bruises and the red lines across Frank's thighs.  
But he has a friend.  
And maybe now things will be alright.

Ray pulls him onto his lap, crying into his hair whilst Ray holds him close and then Gerard looks up, face tear-stained and ghostly pale, his eyes pale pink. He looks into Ray's eyes, seeing the barest reflection of himself and then without thinking he leans in.  
And time stops.  
And Ray moves closer.  
And their lips meet.  
And time speeds up.  
Gerard tastes of vodka and cherry Chapstick and sadness. Ray's hands tighten in Gerard's raven hair and Gerard breaks away but leans in again quickly. Then Ray falls backwards and Gerard with him. They lie like this for a while. Sometimes kissing, sometimes not.  
Time slows down so far the cars that drive along the roads drive as if through deep water, the sun and clouds freeze in the sky.  
There's Gerard and Ray and Ray and Gerard and nothing can ever ruin this.  
Not school work or homophobic assholes. Not Frank or any of Ray's supposed friends. Not the nagging idea of Frank and how he looked lying next to Gerard. Not the way Gerard is all wrong or the way Ray is perfect.  
Because nothing can ever ruin this.  
Not the threat of exams or bad grades. Not terrible music or flickering street lights. Not the drifting past or the lurking future.

And nothing can ever ruin this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you thought of this chapter!  
> (please validate me)  
> but seriously feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed!  
> love <3


	8. light(er) at the end of the tunnel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm

Frank is stood in front of his bathroom mirror, the door locked and a plain black towel is shoved against the gap at the bottom of the door for luck. He holds the silver nail scissors so tightly in his right hand they leave purple lines scored into his skin. His left fist is clenched around a pencil sharpener. It's a single blade encased in dirty red plastic. The only thing stopping him now is the single screw that pins the cruel-looking blade to the rest of the metal and plastic.  
He looks up and catches the hazel eyes of his reflection, then almost immediately flicks his gaze back down so he can only see the mirror at the very edge of his vision. He can't even look himself in the eye.  
Frank mentally steels himself before looking up to stare himself in the eye. Streaks of black run from his eyes down to his chin, sometimes slipping down his neck, tarring his face. His eyes are red and raw from crying, as is his nose before he gave up on trying to stop. Fresh tears well up behind his eyes, each falling a few moments after each other. For some reason, anger suddenly rises up inside him. He doesn't even look pretty. How useless was he, that he couldn't even cry prettily? He lets his eyes roam over the rest of his reflection, disgust burning in his throat. The glass seems to have transformed into one of those fun house mirrors, distorting his body and making him look so fat. Maybe he is. He frantically grabs the back of his black t-shirt and pulls it back so it was flat against his body, accentuating every curve and every line across his body. He throws the fabric away from him in disgust and disappointment. He really is that gross. Maybe this is why Gerard hates him. Maybe this is why Gerard has read his texts but never responds. Maybe this is why Gerard has been avoiding him for the past three weeks and a day.  
He should be dead. What use is he? He's disgustingly, repulsively fat. He can't cry prettily. Gerard hates his guts. He should have died. He should've died when he had the chance. He holds the pencil sharpener up so the reflection bounces back from the mirror.  
"You deserve this." He says, still unable to look himself in the eye. "You deserve this." His voice cracks as the tears start falling again.  
He takes half a step back before cracking the nail scissors open half a centimetre and the two points into the little screw on top of the blade. He twists the scissors gently to the left, allowing a rare smile to pull at his lips as the screw loosens. He laughs a little, bitterly and in between sobs. Now the sharpener matches him: now they both have a screw loose.  
The screw quickly comes loose, slipping away and falling to the ground with an eerie clink that echoes around the bathroom. It stays hanging in the air for so long afterwards Frank can't help but think he might've imagined it. His hands shake as he carefully places the nail scissors down on the shelf under the mirror with such precision he thinks, for a half a second, that they might detonate.  
At least he would die. And there would be no-one to stop him from dying.   
He slides the blade from the rest of the plastic, holding it between trembling fingers as it kisses, and then bites, his forearms. The scarlet that pours from his arms looks like poetry. The pain it leaves sounds like heaven. The lines that gash his skin feel like a gift. And then there's the burning. And then there's the guilt. And then there's the hatred and the anger and death wishes.  
There's a part of his mind, deep down, that thinks maybe (just maybe) that Gerard will sit up and take notice if he 'accidentally' shows him the cuts. If he pulls back his sleeves in plain sight.  
Or if he makes obvious gestures like tug his sleeves down even more so when (if) Gerard mentions self-harm. Or bring up the subject and deny and not meet his eyes.  
And this thought just makes him hate himself even more.  
(Anything for him).  
A few hours later, he walks out of his house, down the road, not bothering to look both ways at the road because what's the fucking point anymore and if he gets hit he might even die, and into the corner shop. The one in which the old man behind the counter cares so little he would sell nerve gas to a toddler. It's one of Frank's favourite places.  
He does his best to act like his heart isn't hammering so hard it's about to burst as he paces down the aisles, grabbing a tin of Pringles, a bottle of vodka, and a lighter. He puts the slightly weird collection of items on the counter, without making eye contact with the old man behind the till.  
"That all?" He asks abjectly, scanning the vodka and lighter without batting an eyelid.  
"And a pack of M-Marlboro Reds." He stutters, still determinedly staring at the floor. It’s the brand Gerard always smokes, he says it’s the best and if he’s going to destroy his lungs he’s going to do it with class.  
"You eighteen?" The old man scrutinises Frank with suspicious, cloudy eyes for half a second before remembering he doesn’t care anymore.  
"Yeah." He doesn't look up.  
"Thirty-eight ninety-nine." He says, sighing heavily like he has better places to be. He doesn’t.  
Easy as that. Frank thinks, trying to calm himself down as he digs around in his wallet for the money. He takes the items, shoving them into the pocket of his hoodie and putting two twenty pound notes on the counter, wincing as he catches his wrist on the edge of the surface, and practically sprinting out of the shop. The old man stares after him for a second, wondering if he should call the boy back for his change, before shrugging and gathering up the money on the counter, tucking it into the till. He stares at the drops of blood on the counter, and wonders how they got there.  
It's seven forty-seven when Frank gets home again. He walks straight upstairs, walking along the corridor (exactly ten steps) and into his room. He throws the cigarettes halfway across the room and the tin of Pringles at the wall. They'll only make him fatter than he already is. Kicking his shoes off, he falls face first onto his bed, not bothering to get undressed, and falls asleep, hands still wrapped around the lighter and vodka is his pocket.

The next day (a Saturday), at about twelve o’clock, Frank grips the black plastic lighter in his right hand as he walks a vaguely familiar route. His body shakes with nervous energy; he wants to run away from and run towards wherever it is his feet are leading him. He can feel the adrenaline course through his veins and he feels oddly alive. The only times he's felt alive recently have been when he's slicing his skin with blades, or slicing his mind with Gerard. As he walks along the worn concrete of the pavement and past all the trees with their leaves slowly falling away into nothing, he tries not to think about Gerard. But his mind is known for falling down rabbit holes, and so he allows himself to be lured away.  
The two had finally talked (well, texted) for the first time in three weeks and two days, which felt incredible. Frank had actually laughed aloud at some of the terrible jokes Gerard sent him. Gerard told him to meet him at the lake at ten that night. But he couldn’t and Gerard didn’t talk to him for the next four hours.  
Gerard had also told him that he wasn't to talk to Pete Wentz or Patrick Stump. Had it been anyone else, Frank would've told him to go fuck himself, but this was Gerard.  
And Gerard was different.  
It was a little strange, granted. He knew Pete and Patrick well enough to want more from the both of them. He laughs a little bitterly: poor Frankie, always wanting more and never ever getting it. Besides, the two boys were nice enough. Patrick calmed him down when he was teetering on a tightrope across the greatest heights, shaking and crying with pure panic as he realised he was halfway across and there was no way to get back down. Or at least that's what it felt like. He didn't really know Pete personally, just from a distance. He knew that he and Mikey had a "thing". He knew that Pete did a lot of drugs, or used to. He knew that Pete was pretty much at the same place that Mikey was before he died.  
He wasn't exactly sure why he wasn't allowed to talk to Pete or Patrick, but he had to listen to Gerard otherwise he might leave again. He wasn't exactly sure why the idea of Gerard never talking to him, or even the idea of Gerard being angry at him, hurt. It confuses him--hell--Gerard confuses him. He wants to be with him. He wants Gerard to look at him adoringly. He wants Gerard's attention.  
His feet start to fall onto dirt paths instead of concrete, treading on the carpet of red and yellow leaves.  
He is in love with the idea of being in love, and in love with the idea of Gerard Way. There's something beautifully tragic about Gerard, something Frank can't quite put his finger on. And with thinking this comes a fresh wave of pure self-hatred. Gerard is depressed, and probably has a whole lot more messing up his head.  
And that's what Frank finds attractive.  
In that moment he flicks the wheel of his lighter, sending sparks flying. Visions of fire and burning and scars flash across his mind. He pushes back his sleeves, exposing shallow and deep lines in his skin. Now a steady flames flickers in his hand. He holds it so close to his left forearm the tiny blond hairs singe, the heat turning his icy skin red. He considers pushing it to his skin, letting all the ugly burn away until he was pretty and his bones glittered through. Instead, he takes out the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and slides one out. He thinks back to what Gerard does, how he holds it like it’s a paintbrush and he’s painting the muted colours grey with smoke. It’s almost sad, the way all this town he stands in is only ever muted or grey. Ever since Mikey died, it’s all been the same faded, monotone colours, and it was never very bright in the first place. The town was asleep, and Mikey woke them all up for a few weeks. Long enough for them to place roses and little teddy bears holding love hearts near the lake. Some wrote little cards, but the ink inside them had smudged with the rain. The roses went black after a few days, and the teddy bears got so waterlogged they fell apart. No-one really bothered to put anything else there after that. Pete Wentz still put yellow flowers at Mikey’s grave every Wednesday and Sunday; for the first few times, Gerard had thrown the flowers Pete had put there away in anger, but after fifteen times of doing this and the graveyard bin getting alarmingly full, he stopped. Soon Mikey’s grave was bursting with yellow flowers, and when Frank occasionally visited, he cried until his head felt like it was about to burst. It hurt to see that Pete still couldn’t move on, even a little. The yellow flowers made it seem like there was hope that Mikey would come back. The fact that these yellow flowers were lying strewn across the foot of his gravestone was the most painful thing he’d ever felt. Frank holds the end of cigarette between his lips, bringing the lighter up with one hand and cupping the flame with the other. He breathes in a little hesitantly as he flicks the lighter off and puts it back in the pocket of his hoodie, pulling the cigarette away with one hand, holding it between the index and middle finger of his right hand. He coughs when the smoke hits the back of his throat, tears welling up in his eyes. He determinedly continues to drag the chemicals in as he walks along, smiling a little as the grey smoke unfurls in front of him; it’s graceful, like a dance. The smoke is oddly poetic in the way it is almost watercolour in its movement. The smoke is almost like Gerard in the way it starts out strong and beautiful, even graceful, and then it flows further and further away from Frank until it fades into nothing, only to come back and do the same with each new drag.  
He’s by the lake now, half-hoping that maybe Gerard will be there. He isn’t. Frank closes his eyes, praying that when he opens them Gerard will be there, that irritating, beautiful smirk plastered all over his face. He isn’t. Unnecessary and unwanted tears spring to his eyes and he laughs at himself: he feels so pathetic and so low. Slowly, he sits down against the cold ground and embraces his knees, the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He takes a drag before taking it in his fingers and opening his mouth, letting the smoke pour out. He watches it cascade upwards in front of his eyes. He starts to feel a little sick, his head spinning a little, so he flicks the cigarette butt into the water.  
“I dunno if you smoke—smoked, sorry—Mikey, but if you ever wanted to try... Well, that’s for you.” He feels a little silly, not because he’s talking to the water, but because he never really knew Mikey. He had called for help when he found him twitching on the floor, and spoken to him that time when he was running from someone. Maybe he helped by hiding him, maybe he didn’t. “I’m Frank, Frank Iero. I don’t know if you’d remember me, but… I don’t really know what to say. I wish you weren’t dead. I wanted to get to know you better. Do you still remember Pete? He brings you flowers twice a week. I think he still really loves you. I wish you weren’t dead… I don’t understand how you could do it. Did you forget about all the people who loved you?” Frank clamps a hand over his mouth. He sounds so awful, so bigoted, so uncomprehending. “I mean it’s so hard to remember… I know… I’m so sorry.” He jumps to his feet, suddenly furious, and screams at the water, “I wish you weren’t fucking _dead_!” his anger pulses through him, flashing red lights in front of his eyes. He starts to run away from the lake, he starts to run home, going cold as a waves of pure ice rush through him.  
When the clearing is left deserted, a barely perceptible whisper seems to ripple across the water and all the birds fall silent to listen.  
I’m sorry…

Sunday passes with barely a flicker. His parents ask how his week was, he says it was fine. His dad rolls his eyes and mimics him saying ‘fine’. His mother smiles, and offers to take him to the new music shop that’s opened up in town, and as badly as he wants to go, he’s certain that Gerard will text him that day and ask to see him, so he makes feeble excuses and doesn’t go. Gerard doesn’t even think about him that day.   
When Monday rolls around, Frank doesn’t get out of bed until the last possible moment. He dresses quickly in his school uniform: white shirt, plain red tie, simple black trousers, and because he gave up on actual school shoes a while ago, tatty black converse. He shrugs the school’s ugly blazer over his shoulders, shoving the lighter in his pocket for luck, and runs downstairs, deciding to ‘forget’ his books for that day and to bypass breakfast. It’ll only make him fatter, anyway. He sprints out the door, barely acknowledging his mother shouting goodbye and that she loves him, and down the road to the bus stop. The bus is just pulling away, the doors almost closing as he flings himself in. Panting for breath and certain he just broke some kind of land speed record, he collapses on to the third seat and quickly shoves his earphones in, scrolling quickly through his music before settling on Black Flag and blasting the music through his headphones as loudly as physically possible. Someone screams ‘fag!’ at him, another makes some witty comment about how he looks gay and fat and the entire bus shrieks with laughter. He can’t hear any of it.   
Which is, perhaps, the nicest thing the universe has done for him in a while.  
When the bus pulls up outside the school, Frank is the first off. He decides not to take his earphones out, which shows that maybe the universe is starting to warm a little to Frank, because the things that people are whisper-yelling at and about him are enough to make him want to kill himself.  
He wanders down the school corridors in a daze, trying to figure where the hell he was going. He pulls his earphones out and shoves them into his blazer pocket, but the music in his head just plays louder; it’s angry, discordant, and full of hate that turns slowly to sadness as the song carries on. The walls seem to rise up, stretching to the sky and blocking any escape. The kids pushing past him and the seniors walking slowly, clutching coffee close to their chests don’t seem real. They all blur into one, their colours deafeningly loud but their words are so faded. A girl runs towards him, her eyes set on something just over his right shoulder. She wears the same school uniform as Frank, but with a short black skirt instead of trousers. A simple black backpack with numerous pins and badges stuck onto the back of it bounces around on her back, slung between her narrow shoulders. Her dark hair is falling out of its high ponytail, the strands framing her face prettily. Now he looks at her, she really is rather beautiful, but in an unconventional way. Which, honestly, makes her seem more beautiful than before. Plus, she’s wearing combat boots, so that’s approximately three thousand cool points to her. Her skirt rises up a little with the movement of her legs, exposing a hint of her upper thighs and the straight line scars that Frank recognises all too well. She tugs the hem of her skirt down, running straight past him with a determined look on her face. At first he thought she was beautiful, and he still does, but now he just wants to hug her. He once counted all the scars on his body. Four natural. Seventy-three self-inflicted. Seventy-seven total. It made him feel awful, like he was going to be very, very sick, so he never did it again. He thinks of the girl and of music and scars as he steps inside what he presumes is his English class, coming out of his trance-like state to find that he’s the only one in there. Apart from—who else—Gerard Way. He leans back in his blue plastic chair, propping his feet (clad in very beautiful, glossy black shoes) on the table in front of him. His black hair just brushes his shoulders, and it seems softer, fluffier. Maybe he finally washed it. He is sketching in a little black notebook that rests on his thighs, he seems to be adding the final touches to something Frank can’t see. Gerard senses someone staring at him and tenses up, snapping his notebook shut. He twists around a little, trying to see the figure standing somewhat creepily at the door.  
“Hey, stalker.” Gerard’s lips quirk up into that smirk of his, making Frank’s knees a little weak. He mentally shakes himself for being so pathetic.  
“Hi.” Somehow, he manages to fuck up this single word: his voice trembling with nerves and butterflies.  
“Why are you in here?” His voice invited confidence, he was in a good mood.  
“This is my, I mean, I think it-” Frank stammers hopelessly on every word.  
“Stop stuttering.” Gerard commands, shifting around in his seat, the good mood ending as abruptly as it came, “it’s annoying me.”  
“S-sorry…” Frank can feel tears welling up in his eyes and begins to pray that they won’t fall. He looks to ground, maybe so Gerard won’t see and feel sorry for him. Then again, maybe pity would be better than what they’ve got now.  
“What did I literally just say?” Gerard rolls his eyes expressively, sighing heavily like he’s so disappointed in Frank for not being control of something he could never have control over.  
Frank tries desperately to think of good things that happened to him to stop him from crying. He hasn’t eaten anything in five days, and whilst he feels sick and dizzy and exhausted, he knows this is good. But not good enough. He glances up at Gerard and that does it.  
Tears slip down his face as he blinks rapidly, trying (and failing) to dispel them before Gerard sees him cry. To his surprise, Gerard stands up and walks over to Frank in one fluid motion, gripping him tight in a bone-crushing hug.  
“I’m sorry, Frankie.” He murmurs into Frank’s hair. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.”  
Frank just cries a little harder into Gerard’s shoulder. And try as he might, Gerard actually starts to feel bad for making him cry. This time, he feels something for the kid he holds. He gently rubs his hand up and down Frank’s spine, trying to be comforting.  
“C’mon, don’t cry, Frankie.” Gerard carefully presses a kiss to his forehead. “I think you’re beautiful.” He knows how much Frank hates himself, purely through the way he acts and the way tries to shut down every positive thing anyone ever says about him.  
Frank’s sobs stammer to a halt. “You d-do?” he nervously looks up at the taller boy’s face, tear tracks lining his cheeks.  
“Of course I do,” Gerard is only half-lying this time, “You’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”  
Frank can feel himself blush, a small ghost smile playing around his lips and through his tears. The compliment feels amazing, especially as it’s coming from Gerard. He feels a little warmer, a little softer. The almost-empty English classroom seems to glow a little at the edges with an almost golden flurry around the walls and window frames. He doesn’t say anything for fear of ruining the moment, just presses himself closer into Gerard. The older boy’s hand slips down Frank’s back to rest just below his waist, and holds him close. His touch feels electric.   
“I love you.” Frank mumbles faintly into Gerard’s shoulder.  
“What?” Gerard says, pulling him away from his body to scrutinize his face. Frank’s words get clogged up in his throat as he looks up at Gerard’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed, his perfect pink lips set in a frown. Gerard digs his nails into Frank’s shoulders, not enjoying the way Frank squirms under him anymore.  
“Nothing.” Gerard rolls his eyes, and lets go of Frank, pushing him away a little. The bell to signal the start of lessons rings, loud and obnoxious. It goes on for so long that the two start to wonder if it’s a fire bell and if they should be running right now. When it eventually fades away, Frank says, “I, er, have to get to lessons.”  
“Meet me after school, okay? I wanna say sorry properly.” He resists the temptation to wink at Frank, knowing full well that this would give him the wrong idea, and he smiles gently at him instead.  
Frank just nods before walking quickly out of the room, tears pricking at his eyes again.  
Gerard flings himself heavily into the nearest chair. He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, wishing that he could sort out what was going through his head. There was the pure, filthy anger and sadness that came from Mikey. There was the happy bubble that came from Ray. There was the lust and maliciousness that surrounded Frank, but more recently the glow that surrounded Frank had become softer, a pale yellow or pink. He doesn’t want to hurt Frank. Before, Frank was a way Gerard to prove to himself that he was still in control. Frank was just a kid that Gerard could do whatever he wanted to and there would be no repercussions. And yet, he felt softer feelings creeping up on him. He wanted to take care of Frank. He wanted to hold him and make him feel better. He could be there for Frank when he was sad, he could laugh with him when he was happy. His mind wanders to the future: if he loved Frank, and Frank loved him. They could live together. They could have a dog. They could grow old and watch terrible television and mock it whilst secretly enjoying it. They could plant flowers together. They could move very far away from here, maybe America. Their house (and it would be a house) could have a studio for Gerard to paint and draw, Frank mentioned that he played guitar at some point, so he could have a studio too. They could have a large, open-plan kitchen and dining room, underneath two arching staircases that met in the middle with a balcony: for maximum dramatic effect. They could have a grand piano, because why not. Their bedroom would be huge, a king sized bed for the both of them. They could get a ridiculously fluffy dog and call it Ray. They could be happy.  
But Gerard knew happiness only really existed in fairy tales.  
“Gerard? May I ask what you’re doing in my English classroom?” Gerard looks up and smiles at his old English teacher, Mr Ross, standing in the doorway.  
“You may.” He smirks.  
“Very funny, Gerard. Scram.” He gestures behind him with his thumb.  
“is your class reading that?” Gerard gestures to the copy of ‘To Kill A Mocking Bird’ cradled in the English teacher’s arms.  
Mr Ross smiles, pleased by Gerard’s interest, “Yes, we are.”  
“Well, you could kill my mocking bird any day.” He says with a wink. And to his surprise, his old English teacher flushes bright pink.  
“Gerard. I’ve told you about this-”  
“To stop flirting with you?”  
“Yes. And as flattered as I am, it’s not very professional of me.”  
“You love it really.”  
“Gerard! Out!”  
Gerard stands up and grabs his faded red backpack, stuffed to the gills with books, and winks at Mr Ross as he sashays past him and out of the room.

Frank sits in the far corner of an empty classroom, back against the line where two walls meet and knees up to his chest, fiddling with the lighter. It feels so much heavier in his hands, like it is weighed down with the guilt of what is about to happen. His hazel eyes flick back up the door, checking to see if anyone is standing there, staring in. he tucks the lighter into his blazer pocket before hesitantly pulling an ugly grey exercise book from his plain black schoolbag that slumps against the wall next to him, and begins tearing the pages out, crumpling them up into loose balls the size of his fist. He stares at all the useless equations and figures he wasted all his time on, and starts to wonder if what he is doing is really going to be worth it. He starts to wonder if he’s really worth it.  
Does he really want to die like this? Surrounded by paper and in the place that held so many mixed memories for him.  
He lines the paper up against the walls around him, and carries on ripping pages out of his book.  
Does he really want to die at all? It seems so terrifying. Just nothing, for the rest of time? He couldn’t even pretend that he wanted nothing. And to go like this?  
He is starting to run out of paper, crumpling the pages a little less than before to make them bigger. He puts these new pages on the floor around his legs.  
He told Gerard that he would meet him after school that day. He said he loved Gerard that day. Gerard didn’t hear and so he didn’t say it again. Tears fall down his face as he thinks of Gerard and nothingness and funerals. He wants to love and to be loved more than anything, to wake up to something lying next to him in a comfy bed (they could have all the covers, it wouldn’t matter as long as they were there), and to look at them climb out of sleep with a dozy smile on their face and know that everything would be okay because they were in love. Whether it be Gerard or the pretty girl in the hallway or anyone else in the entire goddamned world, he just wanted—no, needed—to love and be loved. How wonderful would it be to have the privilege of growing old with someone who you genuinely cared about? To wake up next to them and hold their hand and move in together and grow flowers and raise a dog together and be happy. To be so madly in love that their children would be disgusted by it. To be so happy that you could die at any given point and it would be alright because you died happy. Yes, to love and be loved would be fantastic, but Frank just couldn’t see anyone in his future who would be like that. Who could love him, anyway?  
He’s run out of paper now. He takes the lighter from his pocket, smiling bitterly when the flame leaps up from the metal. He stares at it for a second, before touching it to a ball of paper, jumping a little when the flames quickly engulf it, spreading fast. He jumps to his feet, smashing the fire alarm to the left of him with his fist and wincing when the fire bell screams straight into his soul.  
And then he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it! please leave kudos or a comment   
> luv <3


	9. sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's okay to love him. It really is."
> 
> [tw for suicide]

Pete Wentz lay on the left side of Patrick's comfy bed, back up against the wall, idly scrolling through his phone. He's always preferred Patrick's room to his own. His bedroom is dark and messy, most of his posters ripped in half and lying strewn across the floor, leaving the shredded remains to lean against the walls in defeat. Most of his stuff is broken; everything from the mirror to the guitar amp in the far corner of the room. There are tiny little circular stains all over the walls from when he'd thrown pens and glasses and anything he was holding at the wall in anger. Clothes lay thrown across the floor, and crumpled balls of paper littered the floor. It all made his skin crawl, but he just didn't care enough to tidy it all up. Patrick's room is different. Patrick's room has walls painted white, and the window lets just enough light in. The floor is carpeted not in rubbish, but in a soft, pale grey material. The double bed directly in the centre of the room takes up most of the space, but that hadn't stopped Patrick from attempting to fit two guitars (one acoustic and one electric), a keyboard, a bass guitar, a trumpet, and an electric drum kit in his already-small room. Pete can't really move from the bed without accidentally kicking some form of instrument, but he likes it. It suits Patrick. It's cosy. Patrick's room is like an oasis from a harsh desert, which is partly why Pete likes to go over to his house so much. Also, Patrick's dad makes this really nice pasta with sauce thing for them whenever he stays over for dinner. 

Patrick sits on the right side of the bed, facing Pete, playing some song on his guitar. He can't get too passionate about it or he'll probably break something. He starts to play a song that Pete recognises, but he doesn't remember where from, it's probably one of those jokey songs he writes to practice singing and playing at the same time. Patrick starts singing softly: 

"And all I'm trying to say is that butter shouldn't be that hard to spread on bread. Seriously, it's impossible. I don't have the time to make toast. It shouldn't be that difficult." 

Pete can't help but laugh at his friend, grinning at Patrick as he stops singing. 

"Thank you, thank you. That was my new single 'You're Like Spreading Butter In The Sense That I Can't Seem To Do You'. Buy it on iTunes."

"Sure thing, Trick." Pete smiles, looking back at his phone. 

Patrick goes to say something, something the moment is screaming out for. But he doesn't. Instead he starts playing again, something real and beautiful this time. Pete looks up at his friend, noticing how the light from the window falls on him. How his fingers seem to dance across the fretboard of his guitar effortlessly. How he seems totally confident and totally vulnerable when he sings, like he's baring the deepest parts of his soul for all the world to see. The song truly is beautiful. A warm glow radiates between the two of them, a flurry passing through the two of them: the kind of flurry that he only ever felt with M- 

"I have to go." Pete says as he pushes himself off the bed, grabbing his hoodie from the floor, nearly punching the keyboard in his desperate attempt to get out, and get out now. 

Patrick abruptly stops playing, staring slightly open-mouthed at his best friend. "Pete, what-"

"I'm sorry Patrick. I have to go." Pete says, half in the bedroom and half out the door. 

He nearly falls down the stairs trying to get out of his best friend's house. He sprints out the front door, barely hearing Patrick's father yelling after him. He's sure he's never ran this fast in his life, sprinting down the streets and around corners and across road: nearly getting hit by cars more than once. All he can think of is Mikey Way. Everything from the Christmas lights lining the houses and the rain starting to fall reminds him of Mikey. It's like the dam he spent so long building up inside his chest has burst, releasing a wall of water to drown them all. Pete runs faster still, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding shake through him and he daren't look back because he can sense something behind him. Something scary from a movie or Mikey, he can't tell—the two are practically becoming synonymous. Mikey is quickly the shadow lurking just behind the door. And, try as he might, Pete can't really see Mikey's face clearly anymore; he's all blurry at the edges. All he can truly remember is his eyes—those hazel eyes with so much love to give, and with so much love lost. Everything is getting to be too much, he can't balance school and Mikey and family and Mikey and grieving and friends and Mikey. He feels that he can't really be around Patrick, because he's just too sad to get out of bed half of time and he'll only upset his best friend, and if anyone deserves to be happy, it's Patrick Stump. His parents might be worried about him, they might not be. His dad told him to get over Mikey, and Pete cried himself to sleep again. At least he finally slept then. he didn't sleep at all for the first few nights, and hasn't slept well for a while, only being able to snatch an hour so most nights. It was so much worse during the first couple of weeks after Mikey's death; he didn't get out of bed for five days straight, and when he did, he went straight to the lake and didn't move from there for days until the police and an ambulance showed up and took him hospital. Apparently, he had called Patrick around three days in, his voice slurred with painkiller and alcohol, and told him what he had done. When the police found him, his lips were blue and his heart had nearly stopped. Those days spent in the hospital bed without Mikey were rough, a hurricane ripping through his psyche. There was nothing anyone could do but try and secure their things and hold onto each other for dear life. People were shocked he had survived the night over and over again. It was like Patrick had pushed his life into Pete through their interlocked hands, willing so strongly for him to live that he did. Pete, in that moment, was so grateful and so angry everything tore itself in two. Everything splintered and cracked in Pete that night, like glass. Like silence, with three words, everything had broken. When Mikey left, he punctured a huge hole straight through Pete, ripping away bones and flesh and organs until he was totally hollow. Until there was nothing left of Pete Wentz but a shaking wax figure. He loved Mikey so much it took his breath away. There was no fight left in him anymore. The once bright, sparking light behind his brown eyes was flickering and fading away. 

He runs a familiar path, his lungs and sides burning. He bats away branches, and stumbles over the tree roots that wind around his ankles and pull him down, down, down. Stray twigs claw at his face as the placid lake comes into view. He lurches over the little bank, staggering as his feet hit the uneven ground. He prepares to wade into the lake, to cry to Mikey until sleep takes him, and takes him finally—but someone else is already there, sat facing away from Pete, close to the lake. Tall. Shoulder-length black hair. Black clothes. Oh god... but he doesn't notice Pete. Instead, he reaches into the bag next to him and pulls out a knife. The knife trembles slightly, but he tightens his grip and it stops. It looks like it could cut through steel. It's at least twelve inches long, the blade smooth and deadly. Pete freezes like a rabbit trapped in the headlights, and his mind kicks into overdrive. Everything stops, time, space, thought, when Gerard Way presses the knife to his own wrist. Pete launches himself at Gerard, catching him by surprise and pinning him down with his knees, wrestling the knife from his hands and flinging it into the lake behind them, and then grabbing the older boy's wrists and holding them together: he hisses in pain, and Pete notices a thin, red line stretching the width of his wrist, getting deeper towards the right side, blood welling up to the surface. Had he been a second later... Much to his surprise, Gerard doesn't fight back, just stares up at him with vacant eyes from the ground. Pete stares into his eyes, panting slightly from the exertion.

And then Gerard starts crying. Quietly at first, but it soon blossoms into full-blown, agonised sobs. Pete doesn't move, still straddling Gerard's stomach. He's scared to let the older boy move, like he might run into the lake and disappear beneath the icy water, and never, ever surface again. Gerard's shaking hand grips the bottom of Pete's hoodie like it's his life line, and the racking sobs shake through him. 

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Gerard stammers out in between sobs. "Pete, I'm so sorry." 

Pete thinks about everything Gerard has ever done to him. All those times Gerard hurt him, all those times Gerard hurt the people around him. And he finds his heart melting. 

"It's okay. It's all gonna be okay." Pete croaks softly, tears brimming up behind his eyes. 

"Mikey really loved you. He loved you so much and I never saw it." Gerard pulls on Pete's hoodie again. "I want him back." He howled. 

"Me too," Pete whispered. "More than anything." He can practically hear the broken parts of Gerard's heart rattle around in his chest, and his own tears start falling thick and fast. Gerard is a mess, trembling and shaking underneath Pete. His hands closed tightly on Pete's hoodie, using him as an anchor in the deepest, loneliest sea. The two boys lie like this for a while, both of them crying the burning tears they never dared shed. Pete desperately tries to stop crying, to be brave, his breaths coming in strange, hiccupping sobs. Gerard slowly stops crying, his body going limp and his eyes closing. A brief flash of panic comes over Pete, he thinks Gerard might have just died on the spot, from a broken heart: but he sees his chest rise and fall and he knows the older boy is still alive. Gerard's eyes open and the breath is snatched straight from Pete's lungs. Gerard Way's eyes show such intense grief, the kind of grief that no-one should ever, ever have to feel in their lifetime, least of all this nineteen-year-old boy. And that was just what he was, a boy who had been hurt far too much already. All Pete had ever seen of him was harsh, angry, red lines that burnt their way through anything he had and Mikey had—but now he could see that Gerard was just trying to protect Mikey. He thought that Pete had done awful things, sold his body for drugs, but he never had, and Gerard just hadn't wanted his little brother to get hurt. Perhaps Gerard was right to try and protect Mikey from him, after all, he did kill him. He drove Mikey to suicide because of a horrific mistake he made. Maybe that was all it was, all it had to be. A mistake. But he had still done it—he had still kissed Meagan and he was never, ever going to forgive himself for it. 

Pete shifts so he is kneeling next to Gerard, and the older sits up next to him, crossing his legs and staring directly into Pete's soul. Recognition flickers inside his head—Gerard and Mikey have the same eyes. 

"I miss him. I miss him so fucking much!" Pete suddenly cries, slumping to one side as the tears fall with renewed vigour. Gerard pulls him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of Pete's head. He holds Pete as he starts to fall apart all over again. "It was all my fault! It's my fault he's dead!" 

"No. It's not your fault." Gerard says softly into Pete's hair. He's just now realising that it isn't either of their faults, and no matter how desperate they both are to claim responsibility, it will never be their fault. "It's not your fault." Neither of them were exempt from blame, but it was not their fault that Mikey Way, brother, son, boyfriend, was dead. 

"You can't say that! It's all my fucking fault!" Pete sobs between gasps for breath, "You didn't kill him!" 

"And neither did you." Gerard whispers gently. "Neither did you." Tears start to slip down his cheeks again. He feels like he isn't there anymore. Like he's fading away. Like he's turning to grey like the old photographs. He can feel his mind pulling away from him, luring him back towards that knife that would solve all his problems. Death would help him. Dying would cure him and he's so fucking desperate for it. There's this thirst deep inside him, a thirst for the end, for dying. It's like being chained up next to the most beautiful fountain, water running crystal clear and glittering, but the chain was too short. He could never reach the water, and this thirst is made so much more intense because he's surrounded by it all the time—water and death. The lake and his brother. His brother is dead, and he'd do anything to see him again. His brother is dead. His brother is dead and he's never coming back. Gerard starts crying harder, and Pete clutches into him as they both crack straight down the middle over and over again. 

A voice floats from behind them, but neither of them can compose themselves enough to answer. 

"Gerard?" They both recognise it as the voice of Frank Iero. "Pete? What's happening?" He tentatively walks closer, fearing the worst. "I heard shouting." 

"Frank... don't..." Gerard sobs, shaking so badly Pete can hear the jangling pieces of his broken heart again. 

"What's wrong?" Pete doesn't miss the alarm in Frank's voice, and he can't help wondering what's between the two. 

"Frank, please..." 

"He was going to kill himself." Pete mumbles into Gerard's shoulder. 

The silence that slams onto the lake is deafening. The hurt and betrayal in the air is practically tangible. It's a while before any of them talk again. 

"...Gerard..." Frank can feel the tears drip down his cheeks. "I don't... why didn't you tell me?" 

Gerard feels like an iron hand is gripping his heart, squeezing and squeezing until it bursts. He can't find the words to talk, and when he does, they just stay jammed in his throat like marbles. He wants everything to stop. He never wants to feel anything again. He starts to shut off, like he did when Mikey died. Disassociate, don't get drawn in. it's not real. It's all a dream and he'll wake up soon and Mikey will still be alive and their dad will have never hit them and they'll be happy, and, and, and... 

"Gerard..." Frank says quietly. "I... I love you. I hope you know that." 

"There's nothing worth loving." Gerard replies, trying to pull away, trying to disassociate, but finding himself trapped, trapped where he sits, trapped with feeling. 

"Yes, there is. There is so much worth loving in you, Gerard Way. You're wonderful. You're brilliant. And I fucking love you. I will guide you every step for the rest of your life if I have to. I will stay by you through whatever life throws at you. I will do whatever it takes to prove to you that you are worth loving." Frank kneels down in front of him, looking directly into his eyes and finding the lost little boy he had once caught a glimpse of, all those nights ago. 

"You are worth loving, Gerard." Pete says, his words breathy and wispy from the crying. 

"I'm gonna call someone to come for you, okay? And I'll take you home, Pete." Frank swallows, hard, and Pete can't help but admire him. He can almost hear Frank shattering inside, making a grotesque kaleidoscope of bone, soul, and blood. "Gerard, who can I call for you?" Gerard shakily reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it and handing it to Frank. 

"Ray Toro." He says, wishing himself away. 

Frank quickly finds him in Gerard's contacts list, pressing on Ray's name, he lifts the phone to his ear and prays for this Ray Toro to answer. Gerard makes a silent vow: if Ray doesn't pick up, he has to kill himself tonight. 

"Hi, Gerard!" Ray Toro says, his voice a little crackly down the phone from the weak signal around the lake. Gerard lets the tears slide mutely down his cheeks. 

"Hi. Look, I'm gonna need you come down to the lake. Something bad's happened to Gerard." 

"Who is this? What's happening?" There's a trembling fear in Ray's voice. 

"I'm Frank Iero. Please hurry, the lake. Please." 

"Okay, okay. I'm coming." There is a little click as he hangs up. Frank runs a hand through his hair. 

"He's coming. You're gonna be okay, Gerard." 

"Why don't you and Pete leave if he's coming?" Gerard asks, wanting to be left alone so that he can just die quietly. 

Frank shoots him a look, "I'm not going to leave you alone." He finds himself wanting to reach out, to hold Gerard and Pete so he knows that they're both real. So he can feel whole. So he can be sure that they won't turn into those horrific monsters he's seen, time and time again. But he doesn't. 

They sit like this for quite some time, until the sound of pounding footsteps breaks the fragile silence. 

"Gerard?!" They hear Ray shout across from the other side of the clearing. Gerard closes his eyes and rests his weary head against Pete. Ray skids to a halt next to them, his eyes frantically scanning the three boys sat in front of him. "What's happened?" 

"He was... He was about to... He was going to k-kill himself." Frank stammers, his voice halting and his throat clogging up. Gerard stands up, looking Ray straight in the eye. 

All the light leaves Ray's eyes. "What?" he whispers disbelievingly, looking from Frank to Pete to Gerard. 

"I wanted to see Mikey again." He's only partly lying. 

Ray suddenly throws his arms around Gerard, gripping onto the back of his black jumper so tightly his knuckles turn white. Gerard buries his face into Ray's shoulder, not wanting anyone to see him cry anymore. 

"I'm gonna take you back to mine, okay? I'll call your mum. I'm gonna stay with you, Gerard. You cannot do this to me. You are going to stay alive because it's fucking worth it, okay? It's worth it." He gently leads Gerard away with an arm firmly around his shoulders, eventually resorting to carrying him because he's crying so hard he can't see, and keeps stumbling and falling. 

"Why did you come?" Pete asks when Gerard and Ray have disappeared into the trees. 

"He told me to. After school. He told me to come here so he could say sorry 'properly'." 

"And that included you seeing his dead body, huh?" A pause. "That's fucked up." 

Pete looks at Frank, long and hard, trying to see into soul so he knows what Frank really sees. 

"You really do love him, don't you?" Pete says from beside him. 

"Yeah." Frank looks down at his feet, suppressing a sob. 

Pete tentatively reaches out and touches his shoulder, "It's okay to love someone." 

Frank stands up, facing away from Pete so he can't see the tears that steadily run down his face. "I'll walk you home." 

"Frank?" 

A pause. 

"It's okay to love him. It really is."


	10. god never reached out in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> frank must face the consequences

All Frank can think of is fire. Fire and blood. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can see the flames spreading from one tightly curled up paper ball to the next, the rough carpet underneath them staring to spark. He can hear that awful, beautiful crackling noise of the flames consuming everything, and the ear-piercingly loud shriek of the fire alarm. He can feel the heat pressing up against him, getting into his lungs and choking him, the sting of the smoke in his eyes. He can see Gerard sobbing wretchedly into Pete's arms, he can see Ray holding Gerard against him as if they were afraid to let each other go, as if they might fall apart. And he keeps seeing Mikey's funeral. Keeps seeing Mikey's parents stare brokenly ahead at their son's coffin, a bunch white lilies and a sunflower on top of the pale brown, polished wood. Keeps thinking that was something, anything, he could've done. He remembers hearing the priest talk about how much of a good man someone called 'Michael' was, how he cared for the community, how sorely he will be missed by all; but the boy (because that's all he was, he was sixteen and he was so young he was just a kid and he's dead) Frank knew was none of those things—Mikey hadn't done good things, he didn't give a fuck about the place he lived in, and he was sorely missed, yes, but only by the nine people who went to his funeral. The school attempted to attend, but Gerard flew into hysterics when they tried. It was terrifying.

(Gerard is leaning against the church wall, eyes red and raw from crying and drinking and not sleeping. The black suit he is wearing hung off him limply; his black hair lank and greasy. His father goes to touch his shoulder and he flinches away, his entire body moving out of his dad's reach. His mother watches the split-second scene unfold and wonders how it all went so wrong. Frank stands a few feet away, the collar of his shirt rubbing against his neck uncomfortably, and his mother's arm wound tightly across his shoulders, his own father standing by his side. Pete is there as well, leaning limply into his mother and Patrick, his eyes bloodshot and so sad. They can all hear the distant chatter getting louder and louder until it's not just white noise anymore, until it's distinguishable voices—kid's voices: there's fire in Gerard's eyes now, and anger is winding its way through his veins.

A mass of bodies swarms into the graveyard, and Frank recognises a few faces, and then realises, oh god, it's all the kids from school. They've come to the funeral of a boy they all helped kill. They're all in black, all the kids, all the teachers, and it becomes too real. It hits Frank that Mikey, Michael James Way is actually dead and that this isn't just some sick dream or joke. A real person, someone Frank knows, is dead. He's not going to be drifting around the halls anymore, he isn't going to be in his unassigned-assigned seat come tomorrow, he isn't going to be there. Frank rubs at his eyes viscously, and his mother pulls him closer to her. He looks up, across the short distance to Gerard. He's stood, ramrod straight, glaring at the head teacher—Mr Weekes—with nothing short of rage in his eyes, and his hands tightly clenched into fists.

"What the fuck are all them lot doing here?" His words ring out across the graveyard, crystal clear and dripping with venom. 

"Gerard!" his father's voice tears through the silence, and Gerard flinches but doesn't back down. "Apologise!"

There's burning hellfire behind his eyes now, and the air around him practically ripples with the fury rolling off him, "What are they doing here?"

Mr Weekes looks at him sadly, softly, "for the funeral."

"No." he says bluntly.

"I'm sorry?" The older man wears an expression of absolute shock.

"They—you—are not coming to my brother's funeral. You're not."

"Gerard-" Mrs Way attempted to cut in.

"Go away. They killed my brother. They—you—they killed Mikey. He's dead and it's all their fault!" He yelled. His father slaps him upside the head, hard. And he does something he's never done before: he hits back, catching his father in the shoulder. "Get the fuck away from me." He spits. Much to his surprise, the older man does.

"Gerard, we're just here to pay our respects—"

Someone in the swarm laughs at him, and something deep inside Gerard snaps in to jagged halves.

He starts yelling at them, shouting at them to get away from his brother at first, but it soon dissolves into incoherent screams, half-broken by sobs. He stumbles forward, arms outstretched wide as if to—too late—protect his brother. His father grabs hold of him, pinning his arms behind his back, a menacing whisper hissing in his ears, but he can't find it in him to care. His brother is dead. Why should he care about anything anymore? The entourage can do nothing but stand and stare in shock. Linda Iero tightens her grip on the fabric of her son's blazer.

"Gerard, breathe. It's okay. Calm down." He hears someone say, but he can't. He can't stop screaming, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. There's an awful feeling deep inside him, like he's hollow, centreless. Like all he's doing is imploding into oblivion. He starts to feel light-headed, his vision starting to blur, and his knees buckle under the sheer force of feeling, sending him down to the floor, as his father lets go of him. The face of his head teacher comes into view, resting a hand on his shoulder. Frank notices some of the students start to steadily filter away back through the gates. "C'mon, breathe."

Gerard looks up at him from under his eyelashes, giving him a look of pure malice. His screams slowly melt into sobs. And through the tears falling down his cheeks, he says, "get the fuck away from me and my brother. Get away from him."

"I'm sorry." A heavy weight settles on the shoulders of Dallon Weekes as he sighs, stands up, and walks away.

The nine of them are stood around the grave, seven of them crying bitterly. The other two, Mr Way and Pete Wentz, are too shocked for the tears to start falling. A priest reads a passage from the bible over the coffin before casting a handful of dirt over it. Gerard is entirely too responsive for this. He wants to drink until he can't see or remember his own name. He wants to stop feeling altogether, because everything hurts and he loves his brother too much. His brother, his baby brother. Michael James Way, sixteen years old. Dead. Gone. Gerard bows his head and lets the tears fall. The Iero family look at him with pity blurring their eyes.

Later on, after the service, they were standing around awkwardly, clutching paper plates with various snacks in their hands at the Way's house. It feels so wrong to be discussing the weather, talking about the food or about the promotion Pete's mum is lined up for, because the body of Mikey Way has just been buried. Frank is stood next to his mother, who is talking to the other adults, staring out the window. He can see Gerard outside, sitting on an old swing set at the bottom of the small garden, pushing himself back and forth slightly with the front of his shoe. There's a bottle in a brown paper bag in his right hand and he's crying. Not the raw, desperate sobbing of earlier, but quiet, broken tears gently sliding down his cheeks. He's wearing the suit from the funeral, but with a large, black hoodie over the top. He's gripping the fabric with his left hand like his life depends on it, and he's just staring. Staring ahead with completely empty eyes. Frank can feel his heart breaking over and over again.

The car journey back. Almost silent except for the sound of the road escaping beneath the wheels.

"We're very lucky, Frank. We really are." His mother says from the passenger seat. He nods automatically as he starts to cry quietly, twisting his body so his parents can't see his face.

Linda Iero turns around a little in her seat, reaching her hand out to her son. She taps him on the knee to get his attention, and he looks a little startled before releasing it's his mother, and holds her hand. He closes his eyes as she gently rubs her thumb back and forth across the back of his hand. Neither of them let go until they get home)

Frank keeps thinking how he was so much of a coward. How he had burnt everything and didn't have the guts to burn with it. He fiddles with the cuffs of his hoodie sleeves absentmindedly, normally he would've taken it off by now (by five in the morning, by the time he's so tired he could cry, but can't find the strength to close his eyes), but recently his mother had been coming into his room more and more often, and he had barely managed to hide his arms before she opened the door earlier. His eyes flicker shut for the barest of seconds, and his body relaxes into the darkness before jerking back awake—he's made a deal with himself, stay awake for a full twenty-four hours, and nothing bad will happen.

He realises he's still fully clothed—t-shirt, hoodie, jeans, shoes and all. He wonders if listening to some music will wake him up a bit, but recently the songs that made him feel alive are just noise. They don't mean anything to him. They aren't making him feel like they used to, and it's scaring him. it's terrifying and he can sense the darkly glowing eyes of all those monsters staring at him when the lights go out. They'll kill him. They'll tear him apart. All these things around him—his bed, the clothes on the floor, his guitar—they're so real, so... there. And he feels like he isn't, no, like he can't be.

He will destroy everything, or it will destroy him.

Hours pass. The night grows darker, the sky a vast, dark stretch of fabric, rolling out in infinity. Frank finds his eyelids fluttering shut every second, before he wrenches them back open again. No-one knows it was him who started that fire. No-one but him and God.

He had started it towards the end of the school day, when all the kids would be leaving anyway. He had wanted to die, but he didn't want to hurt his parents with the knowledge that their son had killed himself. It would've been a freak accident, something no-one would have expected. Chalk it up to bad luck and everyone could go home unharmed. It had burned with nothing short of pure rage, screaming his name as he ran away. Ran away like a coward.

He peels back the left sleeve of his black hoodie, feeling tears gather in his eyes as he looks at his arm. bright, burning red lines carve their way across his skin, uneven black stitches holding him together. Something similar to hatred boils in his gut as he reaches for a blade.

The flames had licked closer and closer as he screamed out, yelling that there was a fire. He ran, he ran and he didn't stop running until he got home. His parents weren't in, thank God. He went upstairs, fell face-first onto his mattress and broke. He let every emotion he'd been bottling up burst out of him, exploding across his mind in shades of red and black. He cut himself to stop it all, to stop all these frighteningly real emotions. He cut until all he could think of was the pain. He cut until he didn't exist again. And then...

And then he went to the lake. And then he saw Pete and Gerard. And then everything went too fast and it didn't seem real and it was all a blur and—.

Gerard nearly died. Gerard Way nearly died. He nearly killed himself.

He went home, saw his mother. Smiled at her, disappeared to his room.

He stares ahead the wall in the dark, mentally fighting against sleep.

He loses.

+

The next day, a whole-school assembly is called. One thousand two hundred students crammed into the auditorium, with the headmaster at the front, looking grave. Whispers dart around the mass of bodies—

("It'll be the fire." "Do they know who did it?" "Do you think it was arson?" "Who do you think it was?" "It wasn't me! I reckon it was that guy whose brother topped himself." "Yeah, he's properly fucked up.")

–Before a single look from Mr Weekes silences the entire school. He breaths in deeply, exhaling in a heavy sigh. "As you all may be aware, there was a fire in classroom three E yesterday. It has become apparent that this was no accident. If anyone knows anything about this incident, please tell a member of staff. And if you were involved in this, own up immediately after this assembly and your punishment will be less harsh." He shook his head, almost disbelievingly, "Never, never in all my fifteen years of teaching... Whoever did this, know that you are incredibly cowardly and weak. I am very disappointed." He casts his gaze over the students again, and Frank shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He's sure that the man can see directly into his soul, seeing everything he's done. What had he done? Oh God, what had he done? "Three E and all the rooms down that corridor are out of use. You are dismissed." Frank is left dumbfounded as the bodies of his classmates scramble to get out of the room. He finds himself walking towards the headmaster, who is still standing on the raised platform.

"Iero, can I help you?" His voice is gentler, but it still has a bite to it.

"Yes. I... I know who started the fire." Frank hears himself say, from a great distance.

"Who?"

His throat closes up, everything around him is spinning faster and faster. He swallows, hard.

"It... It was me."

+

At home, his parents sat on the black sofa opposite Frank, who is sat in a black armchair. They stare at him as if they've never seen him before. His mother is talking, aggression and sadness in her voice, and his father just sits there, shaking his head. Their disappointment hurts more than anything Frank has ever experienced. They know he's been expelled, but not why. He was expecting screaming, rage, maybe even a slap, but he's getting hushed voices and a heavy black cloud pressing over him. after a while, his father cuts his mother off.

"Go to your room, Frank. Just go."

He gets up, heads towards the stairs, and then his mother grabs his wrist. He screams out in sudden blinding agony.

And then his world comes crashing down in kaleidoscope shards. 

A thick blanket of silence falls across the room. Time slows down.

"Frank. Roll your sleeves up."

A fog of panic settles over him, choking him and clogging his lungs. He shakes his head desperately, unable to move any other part of his body. He's totally frozen, a rabbit in the headlights. Trapped.

"Frank Anthony Iero, roll your sleeves up right now."

He can't move. He can't think, can't breathe.

Suddenly, his mother is yanking his blazer off his shoulders. He tries to fight her, but he's no match. She tosses the fabric to one side, and violently pulls up her son's shirt sleeves, holding onto him with a vice grip. He wraps his arms around his torso, unaware of his own desperate crying. She pulls them away, looks at the broken, damaged skin. 

There are harsh, unforgiving lines in dark red lining her son's forearms from wrist to the crook of his elbow. There are the black lines of the stitching breaking up the red and white. There are the cuts that are so deep they look fake. They all come together in a grotesque mosaic, and Linda Iero feels anger boil up inside her. She can feel her husband stand beside her, both of them feeling like the scum of the earth. She looks into her son's eyes. Were they always this sad? She's feeling everything at once and there's nothing she can do but watch as her own hand flashes out and slaps the boy across the face.

"How could you?" she screams at him, "how could you?"

"I'm sorry!" Frank sobs, feeling like the end. Feeling totally worthless.

"Liar! Don't lie to me!" Her voice tears through Frank, like a dog's bite through a rabbit's shaking body. "Get his guitar," she says to her husband, "take it to the tip."

Finally, Frank comes alive again. But he didn't want it to be like this, never like this. "No!" he screams, "not my baby! You can't have her, not my baby! No, you can't you can't you can't!" he cries, as a raw panic sets in, completely unlike anything he's ever felt before. It's terrifying and he knows it's the end, he's going to die. His lungs won't work—he can't fucking breathe.

"I'm sorry, son." His father says, walking up the stairs, towards Frank's room.

Nothing in Frank's head is working anymore. there's nothing but panic. Panic and fire and blood. He's dead, he knows he's dead. He can hear someone screaming in the distance, someone screaming, "not my baby you can't have her don't take her away from me!"

His father walks past him, Frank's guitar in his hands. He walks past Frank and straight out of the door, to his car. The boy's knees give out and he falls to the floor, a strange, animalistic noise emanating from his chest. His vision is fading, the world going black at the edges. He hears his father's car start and drive away, away with the object he had placed his entire well-being, life, future on. A huge, heavy emptiness settles on his chest, spreading out across his entire body, lighting him up as quickly as flame takes to paper. The dark film lacing his eyes completely covers everything, and then he's staring into nothing.

He's going to kill himself tonight, if only so he never has to feel like this again.


	11. deja vu

Gerard lies on his bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He's playing music, but it could be anything at this point. It's not like he's listening to it anyway, it's all just white noise to send him to sleep. He pulls his earphones, and can still hear the beat pulsing through the tiny speakers. Perfect. He shoves them back in, clamping his hands over his ears to try and get lost in the music. His sheets are tangled around his legs, and it all feels wrong but he knows there's nothing he can do about it. His pyjamas are too big, too twisted against his body. A thin film of sweat clings to his body, making him pull the cloth away from him only for it to stick straight back. He looks down at the t-shirt stuck to his skin, a familiar logo in red letters staring back up at him. For whatever reason, he doesn't feel safe.

Back to the music, back to forgetting.

He closes his eyes for a second, before they snap back open with the realisation that he really doesn't like ACDC, so why is he wearing an ACDC shirt and oh. Oh. Oh god no... It's one of Mikey's! He jerks bolt upright, the sudden motion pulling his earphones out. He frantically yanks the t-shirt over his head, and hurls it at the opposite wall. It's his brother's, it's one of Mikey's! Why does he have it? Granted, they shared most things, but he's... he's dead. Gerard doesn't want his brother's death on his skin, he can feel the cold breath of the dying against the back of his neck now. He can feel their clammy hands against his body, and there's some sort of fog in his lungs. He can't breathe, his throat closing and his chest constricting. He sits on his bed, shaking uncontrollably and his breath coming in short, sharp pants. Yesterday, Gerard had felt like dying, and would've done if it hadn't been for Pete, and now he's surrounded by it again. His brother's blood is on his hands, his brother's death is choking him. Blood starts to leak from the cracks in the walls.

His phone rings.

Once, twice, three times.

He stares at it like it's something horrible, something that has crawled from the grave. Something coming to kill him. Something coming to take away everything. He'd only just built up things enough to have something to lose.

He picks up the phone. Presses it tentatively to his ear like it's going to detonate.

Someone is crying on the other end of the line. Making threats that Gerard knows have weight behind them. There's rawness in their voice, a cold, desperate rawness that hurts even through the distance. Gerard's eyes widen as he hears everything. Don't move, he says, voice low and urgent. Don't move, wait for me to come to you. Please just listen to me. Don't do anything, please.

It's like before, except he knows now. It's like before, except he can stop it. He doesn't have to lose anyone.

Running down the stairs, slamming into the wall and pushing against it before starting towards the front door.

"Gerard?" Not now, please god, not now. "Gerard, honey, there's someone I'd like you to meet!"

A man sitting next to his mother on his sofa. Smiling, with an arm draped over his mother's shoulders. A total fucking stranger, with brown hair and soft, brown eyes. He knows is mother has been all over these dating sites, but he just never thought that she'd go through with it. He really can't think about this right now. Let them play happy fucking families without him. Maybe they'd prefer that. After all, she's already lost one son. What fucking harm could another lost boy do?

"Gerard this is—Gerard? Where are you going? Gerard? Gerard!" He wrenches open the door, flinging himself out onto the pavement with one word, one name running around his brain. "Gerard Way, get back here!"

But her voice fades into nothing as he runs towards the one he needs to save. There's nothing more important right now.

Five minutes later, he's shimming up the tree that grows outside Frank's bedroom window, climbing through the frame and landing on the carpet in a mess of limbs. He launches himself at Frank, holding him so close and so tight so he can be sure he's not already lost. He pulls back for brief second, holding onto the other's shoulders for a moment, then his upper arms, then his hands, then he envelopes the other in his hold again. There's something like panic clawing its way through his system, reaching out of his chest and taking swipes at the boy in front of him. His eyes are frantic as he takes in the slender form of Frank Iero—was he always this thin? Did he always look so defeated?

Something has broken deep inside of him, his beautiful, porcelain face made clay by hurt. Perversely, Gerard wants to draw him like this. To capture such raw emotion would be truly... truly sick, what the fuck is he thinking?

"Have you... done anything?" Gerard asks, his voice low, his hands gripping tightly onto the back of Frank's t-shirt like it will keep them alive. A tidal wave of relief breaks over him when Frank shakes his head. They're both crying now, both only just realising what they could've lost. "Thank fucking god, thank you thank you... I can't lose you. I cannot. I don't need to lose someone else I love."

Something sparks inside of Frank's chest as his words. Someone else I love. Love. "I love you, Gerard. I mean it."

"I love you too." He replies without hesitation. "I love you too."

And he's just starting to realise that he does. He truly does.

They sleep for some time. They talk occasionally. But mostly, they just exist together, something that has been denied of them for far too long.

2am. Two bodies interlocked on Frank's mattress. Two stories to tell.

Frank tells Gerard all that has happened, noting the tears welling up in Gerard's eyes when he pulls his sleeves back. Right from the start. From helping Mikey to his world breaking into tiny pieces. Together, they can share the sadness. They can act as one, the hurt flowing from one to the other, except it's not quite as bad as before. They just lie there, holding one another. Splintering into pieces that the other fixes swiftly. Back and forth, back and forth.

"I always saw these monsters. They've always been there, waiting. But then you found me or I found you and they disappeared when you were around."

Gerard tells his story. From the pills he took, the pills Mikey took, to how he had ended up sat beside the lake alone, knife in hand. Frank curls up into Gerard's chest. His steady heartbeat is the rhythm of the night. Something akin to euphoria ties them together with strings of Christmas lights, blinking slowly in the dark. The quiet joy is so heavy it is tangible; how it echoes and bounces off the walls in slow, pulsating waves.

From somewhere far above, Mikey Way smiles with tears in his eyes.

2:54am.

"it's his time," Frank mumbles quietly into Gerard's chest.

"I know," Gerard pulls him closer.

"Do you ever wish you could've...?" Frank trails off.

"All the time. I'll never stop thinking I could've done something to save my baby brother. If I had just left you alone. If I hadn't hurt so many other people. If I had just tried harder. It's fucking awful. I can't lose anyone else, especially not you."

"I want you to... I want..." but he can't find the words, so he pulls Gerard closer with shaking hands, trying to say everything all at once. The older boy melts into his touch, both of them feeling truly safe for the first time in so, so long.

6:18am

Two sleeping figures interlocked on Frank's mattress, the sun casting gentle rays of sun onto them through the window.

There's something so innocent about the two in sleep. They are softer, more childish, the hurt gently sponged off their faces by the delicate night.

(The sky is soft and they are gone with the wind.)


End file.
